


The Vending Machine of Doom

by hooksandheroics



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Humor, and clarke is tired of hearing sex noises, and dark bat caves, bellamy is hungry enough to fight a machine, raven is the horny roommate, slight Raven Reyes/Kyle Wick - Freeform, vending machines of doom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3693812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hooksandheroics/pseuds/hooksandheroics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sexiled Clarke Griffin escapes her room to <i>not</i> spend her whole night hearing her roommate have sex. So when the solace she finds at the end of the corridor is disrupted by somebody else's grunts and groans, she's ready to give whoever it is a piece of her mind.</p><p>(Or that AU where Bellamy has his hand stuck inside a vending machine, and Clarke has an Organic Chemistry exam tomorrow, and is tired of hearing sex noises.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vending Machine of Doom

There is that sound again.

It’s Wednesday night, Clarke has got an Organic Chemistry exam tomorrow early morning (she begins to question what it is that she ate that she decided to take Organic Chemistry because she can now easily name the acids rising in her esophagus whenever she thinks of how toxic the subject is), and she absolutely has no business whatsoever eavesdropping on a very enthusiastic sexcapade that’s apparently happening not two feet away from her.

Not that she can see it, or even know if people are actually having sex in a dead end corridor of the dorm hall. It’s just that the sex noises are dead giveaways. Also, the bigger puzzle is that she can only hear one person. The man, that is. If there is a woman there, she’s not very vocal. Or it could be two guys going at it – damn it.

But here she is, sexiled into the corridor by her very horny roommate. She had initially wanted to kick the door of her shared dorm room down and damn it all to hell because this exam is going to kick her ass if she doesn’t get any reading done tonight. But when she heard the loud moaning coming from her room, she backed away and ran until she reached the end of the corridor.

So now, she’s sat against the wall of the fire exit, holding her notes and her laptop on her lap, annoyed and fuming as the sex noise of the man gets ridiculously louder. Not five paces from where she sits is a right turn to a dark, practically stupid architectural mistake of a corridor, where no one actually occupies because there are _no fucking rooms_. Nothing but a narrow and short alleyway, a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare, if you ask her.

So yeah, it’s a perfect place for public sex. (Note: sarcasm.)

All she wants, for the love of all that is holy, is a quiet time devoid of sex noises where she can study in peace (and cry over the notes that she cannot get).

She hears _him_ swear in a low voice, and then hiss. _“I’m gonna bleed – bleed out here and die. Fuck.”_

Now, if you ask her about this, she will probably definitely deny any and all circumstances of her having heard someone getting frisky in a dark bat cave, but that is probably the strangest thing she’s ever heard being said during sex. _‘Is someone biting his dick off?’_ is her first thought. _‘I don’t care,’_ is her second thought.

 _‘This has got to stop,’_ is her third and last one as she gets up and leaves her things there to reprimand whoever it is that is getting his penis cut off. She stomps five paces, turns sharply and stomps three more before tripping on a log and falling almost face first onto the floor. If it weren’t for her outstretched hands, she would have had a bleeding nose and a killer headache tomorrow and she doesn’t really need those if she wants to even remotely pass.

(Her breasts are going to be so sore tomorrow. Damn it.)

It turns out, she figures as she sits up right, that the log is not a log but is actually long legs splayed across the tiny space between the walls. And that they belong to a man who, definitely fully-clothed, has his hand stuck inside a vending machine, apparently. _What the fuck._

“What the fuck?” they both say, and if she had the time, she’d debate that she has the more pressing reason to ask that question than him. Whoever he is that’s reaching inside a vending machine.

And oh. _Oh._ Now it makes more sense. The distressed sex noises and the bleeding out and dying thing. She can actually see a thin line of blood trickling from his forearm to his elbow, and now she itches for her first aid kit. His neck is bent in an awkward angle, and she knows it must hurt lying like that. (She also notes that his well-defined arm muscles are probably the reason as to why his hand is stuck there. Jasper could have totally snatched a snack from there without a sweat.)

His glare is demanding for her to speak, so she does.

“What the hell are you doing with your hand stuck inside that thing?” she asks, firing all the exhaustion and exasperation in her tone because she’s had a long day and she doesn’t have the time to deal with attractive idiots in possibly life-threatening situations.

He huffs, as if he’s been asked that question so many times in the past. Which is improbable, seeing that he’s still stuck there. “I was hungry,” he replies, jerking his hand again, and then hissing when it pulls at his cut.

She quietly assesses his situation, biting her lip as she tries to figure out a way out of this. Because, well, her study night has already been shot in the face, she might as well help the poor bastard out.

“Stop doing that,” she scolds as he tries to pull his hand again.

“Why do you care?” he shoots, and okay, if there’s anyone that should be grumpy, it should be _her_.

She deadpans him with a glare of her own. “So you don’t need my help?”

He purses his lips, a battle brewing behind his dark eyes that Clarke knows she’s winning because he sighs in defeat and does this thing with his nose that is actually quite adorable. “Yeah, sorry. I’ve had a long day today,” he admits, his shoulders sagging in surrender. _Well, that’s one thing they have in common._

“Me, too,” she replies, giving him what she thinks is an assuring smile. “Let me just – I’ll help you. I think I have a way.”

And then she’s springing up from the ground and running back to her room – probably walking through hell to help this handsome stranger.

Ten seconds is all it takes for her to unlock the door, shield her eyes from the heavy petting that is ongoing between Raven and her – boyfriend – man – thing – Wick, to grab the bottle of lube that her roommate has in her stash and a packet of band aids from her own stash, and get the hell away from there. Actively ignoring the loud whoop of victory and the louder, “You go, girl!” coming from said roommate as she slams the door at her wake.

It takes her almost an exact minute to get back to the alleyway of the doomed vending machine, making a quick stop at the common room to grab a bottle of water just because she thinks he’s been there for a long time.

When she arrives, she sits herself near the mouth of the machine, assessing the situation once more. She ignores the pointed look he sends her way when he notices what she’s brought over, and instead wordlessly hands him the bottle of water before popping open the bottle of the other liquid that should not be drank.

She squeezes the slimy liquid on her palm and spreads it with the other so that both of her hands are slathered with it, and then reaches forward to apply it onto his skin, all the while painfully aware of the way his muscles play underneath his olive skin. She discretely notes the veins that line his skin, and the scars (of labor, it seems) that occasionally pattern his skin. These ones, she’s curious about.

“You get yourself stuck often?” she asks, not even bothering to hide the amusement in her tone.

He follows her line of sight and shrugs. “No,” he replies. “Those are from a shootout downtown. Bullet hit glass, glass hit me.”

If there’s a thing that can shock Clarke, it’s an unexpected story telling from a tragic stranger. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“I’m lucky I’m alive. My partner? Not so much,” he reveals again, and there should be a limit to the number of times a person’s heart should stop and restart. “I’m a cop,” he supplies, judging by her dumbfounded expression. She hurries to clear her face, and then focuses at the task at hand.

She gives a few experimental jerks to his arm, and sees that it’s actually alright to pull slowly. She extricates his arm carefully, a string of apology leaving her lips whenever he hisses in pain, but another minute and he’s free as a bird.

A huge sigh of relief escapes both of them when he sits himself upright in a considerably more comfortable position, seeing as they’re still both cramped in between two walls that have no business having a space between them.

She laughs. “This alley is stupid.”

He chuckles back breathlessly. “The position of the vending machine is also stupid.”

They sit there in silence, just catching their breaths as if they had just pulled off an elaborate museum heist. It is then that she notices that she forgot something. So, she pulls the packet of band aids from his back pocket and grabs at his arm, turning it around to see where the cuts are and covering them with her handy-dandy first aid knowledge.

He chuckles again, sounding taken aback and amused at the same time. “Thank you, stranger,” he says sincerely, his eyes boring into hers that it’s hard to look away.

She clears her throat. “You’re welcome, officer.”

“Call me Bellamy,” he says, and then smiles at her as he offers his uninjured hand, and damn her heart for doing that little somersault in her chest.

“I’m Clarke,” she replies and takes it.

They don’t shake hands, nope, but he holds hers in a delicate grip that shoots unexpected sparks against her already heated skin. When his eyes turn mischievous, her gaze turns curious. And then he’s holding his other hand up, his fingers around a candy bar.

“As gratitude,” he declares, opening the wrapper with his teeth (she doesn’t find that _sexy_ at all, because it’s gross, that’s right), and breaking the candy in two. He offers the other half to her, shaking it in front of her face until she reluctantly takes it.

“I trust that this is not stolen, seeing as you’re an officer and all,” she quips, taking a bite.

He gives her a wolfish grin. “I wasn’t always a cop.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :) Leave a comment or a kudos on your way out! Or come yell at me on my [tumblr](http://hooksandheroics.tumblr.com)!


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